


The Ballet Is One Flower Short Tonight

by nothingwithoutyouxo



Series: Six Day Hurricane: A Collection [2]
Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Ilse, Ballerina Wendla, F/F, Fluff, One Shot, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 11:36:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11920056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingwithoutyouxo/pseuds/nothingwithoutyouxo
Summary: When Ilse was gifted tickets to the ballet for her birthday she didn't expect to fall in love with one of the dancers, especially not from a distance.





	The Ballet Is One Flower Short Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> I thought of this while listening to One Flower Short one day and knew that I needed to write it, which I finally did. I hope you all like it :)

Ilse decided that it truly had been the best of birthdays. As she gazed around her at all the finely dressed people holding champagne glasses and laughing with faux amusement she knew that she had been very spoilt this year. The two of them were only just old enough to drink, but Melchior mentioned something about trying to pull away from old habits. Not to mention how awfully expensive it would be to buy anything here. They hadn’t talked much beyond that. Melchior just let her gaze around, up at the ceiling to count the small beads lining the chandeliers, out the windows at the ever darkening ocean before them and around at the other people. She wasn’t quite sure how he’d remembered - and she knew that she gave Melchior far too little credit on the best of days, he really was a great friend - it must have been months ago when she’d mentioned going to the ballet. It was whenever she’d received the email about it, and she was sure that she’d mentioned it offhandedly enough that no one would remember, but somehow Melchior had. When he handed her over the two tickets just a few days ago on her birthday, it certainly did explain why he’d been complaining about how broke he’d been the past month or so. She hoped he knew how grateful she was for it all.

 

“There’s a guy at 3 o’clock who looks like the most pretentious person I’ve ever seen,” Melchior muttered, nudging her gently to get her attention.

 

She threw a look in the guys direction, and of course Melchior was right. She smirked and looked up at him. “Trust you to look for all the pretentious boys.”

 

He just rolled his eyes at her. “You wound me.”

 

“He’s cute,” she shrugged.

 

“He looks like he’d beat you to death with his daddy’s company.”

 

She nodded, unable to stop the laugh that overcame her. The three nearest older couples glanced in their direction, annoyed. “You’re not wrong,” she said, trying to avoid the eyes on them.

  
“My three favourite words.”

 

Ilse shoved at him. Now he was just doing it on purpose.

 

“Did you know that you’re not allowed to laugh at the ballet?” he teased as they were finally free of any attention.

 

“Of course not,” she beamed up at him, “the only emotion you can feel here is snobbery.”

 

“That’s not an emotion.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

There was movement indicating that the doors to the theatre must have been opened. Melchior and Ilse started carefully weaving their way through the groups of people surrounding them that seemed quite intent on finishing their drinks before heading in. Ilse could feel the excitement building in her. She’d been fascinated with the ballet since she was little. It was one of the reasons that she wanted to be an artist. Dancers were always just so beautiful to paint.

 

“Have I thanked you for this yet?” she asked.

 

“Only every day since I showed you the tickets,” he replied, smiling.

 

“Well, I’m going to thank you again anyway.”

 

“Really, Ilse, it’s fine. The money was worth it, really.”

 

Melchior stopped at the door, letting the usher take their tickets. It didn’t take her more than a second to glance over it and then point them in the right direction. While Ilse had been intending to have to walk up a million flights of stairs to the back of the house she was surprised when Melchior started descending, walking down towards the stage.

 

“I think you’re going the wrong way,” Ilse muttered, trying not to trip in her heels as she walked along next to him. Melchior held the tickets out to her, letting her take them. She gazed down at the words ‘Row C’ and almost missed her step, Melchior managing to catch her quickly.

 

“Careful,” he muttered.

 

“You didn’t!” she gasped.

 

“Hey,” he nudged her gently. “It’s your birthday.”

 

“Mark my words, Gabor, I’m not allowed to give you any shit for the next year.”

  
“I’ll hold you to that.”

 

***

 

They were close enough to the stage that Ilse could practically see into the orchestra pit as the band warmed up. She felt dizzy in the best way possible as she heard multiple instruments being tuned. Melchior seemed to want to break some kind of record because she’d been with him for almost two hours and he hadn’t even turned smug yet. He was just … content, which was definitely something that hadn’t been common for him in the last few months. She wanted to soak up as much of it as she could. Ilse pulled her phone out of her clutch, ignoring the _tsk_ she heard from the older woman next to her.

 

She nudged Melchior gently, trying to get his attention. “Wanna take a selfie and piss off all the people around us?” she whispered.

 

He laughed at that. “I live to piss off old people.”

 

“Smile for instagram,” she smirked, holding up her phone and leaning against him.

 

“Alright my phone next,” he laughed.

 

“You might want to take some pictures of the lighting. You know, for the aesthetic.”

 

Melchior looked up at the ceiling, noting the chandeliers in neat lines. “You’re right.”

 

Ilse snapped a quick photo of him and, with some strike of luck, he didn’t even notice. _‘Sorry for stealing your boy tonight’_ she captioned before sending it to what she knew would be an incredibly flustered Moritz.

 

“Ok, I can see why you love theatres so much,” Melchior muttered, showing Ilse his phone screen quickly.

 

“You don’t need a filter for that,” she replied as her phone buzzed in her lap.

 

_Don’t tell him this but that suit has me deceased._

 

“Moritz says you’re killing him in that suit,” Ilse smirked.

 

“Sorry?”

 

She just smiled over at Melchior for a moment. “Nothing,” she beamed.

 

“Suit yourself,” he shrugged.

 

***

 

It wasn’t too much longer until the lights went out, an awed quiet falling over the audience as the band began to play. Ilse could feel her heart beating heavily in her chest, electricity flooding through her as the curtain slowly lifted and revealed the stage, the ballerinas already in their places. Ilse took a moment to marvel at the beautiful costumes, she could see them so clearly from where they were sitting and she absolutely needed to thank Melchior again for this. She’d probably have to thank him every day for weeks.

 

It wasn’t long before Ilse realised that she was focusing continually on one of the ballerinas, even with all the flawless pirouettes and perfect lifts one of them managed to stand out to her. She wasn’t entirely sure why, she wasn’t the lead but there was something about the way her brown hair had been turned carefully into a braided bun, and how the light always seemed to hit the glitter on her dress at the perfect moment, practically making her glow.

 

“Melchior,” she whispered, shifting as close to her friend’s ear as possible so that she didn’t hear the annoyed protests of anyone around her for disrupting the mood.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“I’m gay.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Ilse knew it wasn’t quite an answer, and that he hadn’t quite heard her, but with how mesmerized he looked she couldn’t really blame him. Her eyes stayed trained almost solely on that one ballerina for the rest of the show.

 

***

 

“You know when you said you wanted ballet tickets for your birthday, however indirectly, I wasn’t quite sure to expect. I was almost tempted to give my ticket to someone else, Ernst of course, but I’m really glad I didn’t. That was really something,” Melchior was saying as he and Ilse slowly made their way towards the doors. The crowd was moving slowly as everyone made for the doors at the same time.

 

Ilse kept gazing back down at the stage, as if somehow the one ballerina that she’d spent the last two hours watching would somehow still be there.

 

“Are you ok?” he asked, noticing how erratic she seemed to be acting.

 

“Hmm?” she muttered. “Oh. Yeah, I’m fine.”

 

“Did you leave something down there?”

 

“No, no. I’m fine, Melchi. Don’t worry.”

 

“No, what is it? Tell me.”

 

Ilse looked up at him, noticing that he seemed to be worried now. “One of the ballerinas is really beautiful,” she explained. “Well they all are but one -”

 

“One of them in particular,” he smirked. “I get you.”

 

“I don’t know what it is. I’m just-”

 

“Enamoured?” he supplied.

 

“Exactly!”

 

Melchior laughed at that. They’d almost reached the doors now, just three people in front of them. “So what did you think of the costumes?” he asked her.

 

“Melchi, honestly, don’t even get me started.”

  
“I think they’d be great for you to paint,” he mused. “I’m sure you could probably find some pictures on the website. You know, promo shots and stuff.”

 

“Don’t give me any ideas,” she smirked.

 

“Oh hang on. There’ll be pictures in the program probably,” he realised. Melchior shuffled in his pockets for a moment, aiming for his wallet.

 

Ilse tapped his hand away. “Oh don’t, you’ve paid for enough. I’ll get one for you.”

 

“It’s not for me, it’s for you,” he reminded.

 

“Still,” she shrugged. Ilse quickly pulled a small pile of notes out of her bag. She grabbed onto Melchior’s arm so that they didn’t get separated and gently lead him across the room to a stand that said ‘Programs’ across the top in big letters. “Excuse me, how much for a program?”

 

“$35,” the man answered.

 

Ilse nodded and counted the right amount of notes before handing them over, taking the red book in return.

 

“Have a good night.”

 

“Thank you, you too.”

 

“Both of you.”

 

“Thank you,” Melchior added automatically, a little confused at being spoken to.

 

Ilse offered a smile and then quickly started heading in the direction of the flow of people heading towards the outside world.

 

“I don’t think I like the way he looked at us,” Melchior muttered, falling into step next to her.

 

“Oh, he thought we were dating,” she shrugged, gazing down at the glossy program in her hands.

 

“Well, isn’t it such a shame that my heart belongs to another.”

 

Ilse looked up at that, a glint in her eyes as Melchior realised what he said. “Does it now?” she teased.

 

“Um.”

 

“How is Moritz anyway?”

 

“Um,” he tried again, clearing his throat. “I’m sure Moritz is fine.”

 

“I’m sure.”

 

“Don’t … tell him about that.”

 

“Oh seriously, Melchi. I’ll leave that up to you,” she smirked.

 

“What about your mystery girl?” he asked, gazing out along the street before them at all the lined up taxis to avoid her eyes.

 

Ilse tugged on his arm gently, leading him towards the train station. “What mystery girl?” she asked.

 

“The dancer. You have a program. Her name will be in there.”

 

That hadn’t even occurred to Ilse when she’d bought it. She was just going to use it as a costume reference, but of course Melchior was right. Not that knowing the ballerina’s name would be of any help, accept maybe to find her Twitter or something. Ilse paused, the cold wind blowing around her as she flicked through the program, looking for a list of names. She found something better, a page of headshots of the involved dancers.

 

“Which one was she?” Melchior asked. “I don’t think you pointed her out so this one’s on you.”

 

Ilse scanned the page quickly, finding the braided brunette hair. She was smiling. She was beautiful. Ilse felt her heart unfairly flutter because of it. She found herself unable to speak so instead just pointed at the headshot on the page.

 

Melchior looked down at it over her shoulder. “Wendla Bergmann,” he read, seeing the name under the picture immediately. “She’s cute.”

 

“She’s more than cute,” Ilse muttered.

 

“And now that you have the program you can make heart eyes at her all night, but we probably shouldn’t miss this train,” he reminded.

 

Ilse practically jolted at that, she slammed the program shut in her hands and nodded. “You’re right.”

 

“Two of my favourite words,” he teased.

 

“Shut up, Melchi.”

 

Melchior pressed his hand to his chest, acting mock-offended at that. “Truly, Ilse, love has changed you.”

 

***

 

Ilse had been able to find the ballerina’s Twitter, as well as her Instagram, Facebook page and website, and if she scrolled so far back on Wendla’s instagram that she reached the year before could she really be blamed? It was ridiculous that she was practically falling in love with her. Ilse didn’t even know her, and she probably never will. She really shouldn’t have found that thought to be as upsetting as it was. It wasn’t like she’d ever find herself in a position to go another ballet, especially one by the same company. She’d probably never see Wendla again. She just had to adjust to that.

 

“How was the ballet?” Moritz asked, dropping into the seat across from her in the coffee shop. They tried to see each other at least once week, and while they couldn’t always afford coffee they seemed to be doing well enough this time. Moritz was still in his work uniform, which meant he hadn’t been home since his shift at the bar ended, and looked completely exhausted, possibly even more so than usual. The eyeliner around his eyes was smudged and somehow his hair and gone flat at the top but was still sticking out at the sides. He probably looked ridiculous to anyone that didn’t know him.

 

“It was good,” Ilse answered, sliding a mug in his direction. They always ordered for each other, depending which one of them got there first, and he really looked like he needed it. “You ok?”

 

“Rough night,” he shrugged, barely pausing before practically gulping down half the coffee.

 

She just nodded at that, not needing him to elaborate.

 

“But I’m ok,” he muttered, smiling at her faintly as he placed the mug down on the table again, keeping his hands wrapped around it tightly. “I hope you’re going to give me more info than just ‘It was good’” he teased.

 

“The costumes were stunning, the staging was beautiful, no one made a single mistake and I think I may have fallen in love with one of the ballerinas.”

 

“Pics or it didn’t happen.”

 

“You saw pictures,” she reminded.

 

“Of Melchi, not of this apparently breathtaking dancer.”

 

“Trust you to use ‘Melchi’ and ‘breathtaking’ in the same sentence,” she smirked.

 

“Ilse-”

 

“Shh, I’ll show you a photo hang on.” Ilse dug through her bag until she found her phone, unlocking it quickly and opening the Instagram app. She had to at least pretend that she hadn’t taken about three thousand screenshots from Wendla’s account anyway. She slid the phone across the table towards him.

 

Moritz looked down at the screen easily, noting that it hadn’t taken Ilse too long to find a picture. She’d absolutely already had the app open on this girl’s account. “She’s pretty,” he said, flicking through a few of the first pictures.

 

“She’s beautiful,” Ilse amended.

 

“Yeah, alright I’ll give you that,” he shrugged. “Hey look, it’s a flower crown. I can’t believe this random girl knows your kinks.”

 

“Moritz!”

 

He laughed and slid her phone back to her. “What’s her name?”

 

“Wendla.”

 

“Not what I expected but actually a surprisingly nice name.”

 

“It’s perfect,” Ilse shrugged, looking down at the picture still lit up on her screen. She’d definitely spent too long looking at that one since yesterday.

 

“So what are you gonna do?” Moritz asked, chugging the rest of his coffee and leaning forward against the table.

 

“Huh?”

 

“About the girl - Wendla, sorry. What are you going to do?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I dunno, if you’re in love with her or whatever, shouldn’t you do something about it?”

 

“You’re one to talk,” she teased.

 

Moritz rolled his eyes at her, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Be serious for a minute, you must have some kind of plan.”

 

“Other than teasing you, no not really,” she shrugged.

 

“Why not?”

 

“Well, what am I supposed to do about it? I don’t even know her? I don’t even know how long her company will be in this city. I don’t know anything.”

 

“Really you should have done a bit more research, but I guess you were a little distracted by the flower crown so I forgive you,” he smirked.

 

“Listen,” she demanded, trying her best not to just start laughing at just how ridiculous this situation was, “there’s nothing I can really do that isn’t stalking so I mean-”

 

“Are ballet theatres like normal theatres?” he interrupted.

 

“What? Moritz, there’s no ‘ballet theatres’ there’s just theatres.”

 

“So there’d be a stage door then,” he said.

 

Ilse paused for a moment, realisation suddenly hurling through her. He was right of course, even theatres as big as the one she’d been in last night had stage doors. And she was sure that cast members would use them. That was what the were for of course. “Moritz, you’re a genius,” she breathed, beaming across at him.

 

Moritz looked nothing less than completely confused, and a little shocked. He was never used to compliments, especially ones as sincere as that. “Um,” he muttered, “thank you?”

 

“No, really. I mean it. I have an idea,” she explained. Ilse quickly pulled her wallet out of her bag, throwing a few notes down the table before stuffing it back in along with her phone. She scarfed down the rest of her coffee before stuttering out an apology.

 

“It’s fine,” he smiled faintly, “go and woo your dancer.”

 

“Ok,” she said, standing quickly, “but promise me you’ll do something about the Melchi situation.”

 

“Ilse-”

 

“Please, Moritz. It’s been _years_.”

 

“So?”

  
She stared down at him, willing him to understand that avoiding and bottling up feelings never did either of them good.

 

“I’ll … think about it,” he muttered, staring down at the table.

 

“Good,” she said, tapped his shoulder gently on her way passed before rushing through the cafe towards the door.

 

***

 

Ilse knocked on the studio door insistently. She knew that Ernst was in, he practically lived in his studio, especially when Hanschen was away on some kind of business trip which he just happened to be this week. Timing had never really seemed to be something on Ilse’s side, but maybe there was a possibility that that could change, even just for a little.

 

When Ernst pulled the door open and saw her, his face immediately broke out into one of the brightest smiles. “Hey Ilse.”

 

“Do you happen to have any white and pink paint?” she asked. “Oh and, uh maybe some blue as well.”

 

“Of course,” he laughed. “What’s up?”

 

“I need to impress a girl.”

 

“Say no more.”

 

***

 

The painting took her a few days, and she barely slept in that time. If it wasn’t for Ernst coming back every day with food to share between the two of them, she probably wouldn’t have eaten much either. She was always like this when she was working on something, it became the sole focus of her being. It was all she could think about until she was done with it. She wasn’t sure why she’d chosen watercolour paint. Ernst was an angel that always had just about every single type of art supply under the sun at his disposal, and she really could have picked just about anything, but she liked the soft tones and the way the paint ran together so easily. Somehow, it was the perfect medium for this.

 

By the time she ever so carefully dragged her brush across the small canvas for the last time, the final finishing touch made, she was just about ready to collapse to the floor. She took a few steps back, knowing that looking at the painting from a distance would help her find any mistakes but she couldn't seem to see any. Finally, it was done. The silhouette of the ballerina practically melted into the canvas. The soft pinks, purples and blues of the dress blending so effortlessly together that she could hardly believe she’d made it all by herself.

 

“Is it done?” Ernst asked her. He was sitting across the room with Moritz, who insisted on occasionally dropping by the check on her. There was an assortment of pastries between them and she barely registered that they’d left some of her favourites.

 

“It’s done,” she beamed.

 

Ernst jumped up quickly, Moritz barely a step behind him and the two of them bounded up to her. “Fuck, Ilse, it’s beautiful.”

 

“I mean, if you were trying to woo me with that painting, it would definitely work,” Moritz added.

 

“Maybe I should teach Melchi to paint then,” she teased, unable to help herself.

 

Moritz groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “I hate you.”

 

“But you like it right?” she asked them both.

 

Ernst just nodded in response, still gazing over at the painting in awe.

 

“I love it,” Moritz smiled faintly, resurfacing. “I think Wendla will love it too.”

 

“If she doesn’t give her this address and tell her that I just wanna talk,” Ernst smirked.

 

Ilse rolled her eyes at that. “I’m sure that’ll convince her.”

 

“I can be persuasive,” he shrugged.

 

***

 

Ilse had never been more nervous in her life. She was sure that if anyone saw her hanging around here at this time of night, and that if she seemed like she was lurking, she’d probably be kicked out of the area or something. So, she tried her best to look like a tourist. She gazed out at the ocean before her, watching the the sky darkened, the sea swelled and the boats bobbed against it. Her canvas was hidden away neatly in her book bag, something that she used whenever she needed to carry her work from one place to another. Small works, at least. She wasn’t really sure what she planned on doing. Ilse hadn’t even really thought out what she was going to say to Wendla, and of course there was always the possibility that she wouldn’t get the chance to. Wendla could very well just go out any of the other entrances, the theatre had quite a few. But she was silently hoping, praying even, that things would go her way just this once.

 

The weird thing about the city is that it was never really silent, even late at night. There was always something happening, always people around and that was probably a good thing. At least that would help her seem inconspicuous. It was because of that that Ilse barely heard when the door cracked open, a few of the ballerinas spilling out, but it didn’t take her more than a second to realise that one of them was Wendla. Ilse’s heart started thudding loudly in her chest. _Here we go_ , she thought.

 

Ilse carefully approached the three ballerinas, all of them moving as gracefully as they had on-stage. They were out of their costumes of course, two of them in simple jeans and t-shirt while Wendla had donned a yellow sundress with a black cardigan thrown over it. Ilse could barely breathe.

 

“Sorry, excuse me,” she muttered. As the three ballerinas turned to look at her, and Ilse realised in that moment just how _weird_ this was. Maybe this hadn’t been a good idea. “Sorry,” she repeated, “but are you Wendla Bergmann?”

 

Wendla looked confused to be addressed so directly, but she nodded anyway. “That’s me,” she said. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow?” she added. Turning quickly to the others.

 

“Come to Thea’s later,” one of them smiled before the two of them headed off, hands intertwining as they did so. Just the sight of it warmed Ilse’s heart.

 

“I’m sorry, but if you’re looking for Thea she’s already left. She doesn’t like being hassled at the stage door, though that hasn’t been happening very much lately,” Wendla explained, turning back to Ilse.

 

Ilse wracked her brain for who the hell _Thea_ was because she was sure that she should know the name. She guessed that it must have been the main ballerina. “I, um, I wasn’t looking for her,” she replied. “I was looking for you actually.”

  
“Oh?”

 

Ilse almost cursed herself and just how strange this had to be. She could tell that Wendla wasn’t used to being approached by random people like this, let alone at this time of night when she’d been trying to make her way home. “I, um, wanted to thank you, I guess,” Ilse stuttered. Suddenly she wished for Melchior’s eloquence. She really could use some of that now. “Let me explain.”

 

Wendla wasn’t sure if she should be amused or not, but she thought that maybe giving this girl a few minutes of her time would help clear everything up. She seemed to have good intentions.

 

“I saw the show the other night. Last Thursday night, and I just wanted to tell you that I thought you were amazing.”

 

She wasn’t used to this sort of praise. It was usually left for Thea or some of the more accomplished girls in the company, never for her. Wendla found herself to be incredibly touched.

 

“I know this must seem weird and honestly it’s about to get weirder but I’m an artist, a painter really, and I, um,” Ilse paused, pulling the canvas very carefully out of her bag, “I was just really inspired by your performance, so I painted this of you. I mean, I guess you can’t really tell that’s it’s you because it’s just a silhouette but it’s supposed to be you.”

 

Wendla took the canvas in her hands, gently holding the edges as to not disturb it too much. She’d never really been the cause of anyone’s inspiration before, especially not like this. “What was your name?” she asked, looking up at the girl again.

 

“Ilse. Ilse Neumann. I’m not, like, famous or whatever so it won’t be worth anything but you can keep it if you want I don’t min-”

 

“Ilse, it’s beautiful. Really,” Wendla smiled at her.

 

Ilse wasn’t even sure if her heart was beating anymore. “Thank you,” she breathed. “I - That means a lot.”

 

“How long have you been waiting out here?”

 

“I haven’t really been keeping track,” she confessed.

 

“Did you wait out here all this time just to show me this?”

 

Ilse paused, not really sure what to answer. “I just, um, wanted to do something to kind of show how great you were. I mean, in the production. Really, I thought you were incredible.”

 

Wendla couldn’t help but smile at Ilse. She was practically ready to tear up. This was probably the nicest thing anyone had ever done for her, and it was all by someone who didn’t even know her. “Are you doing anything?” she asked. “I mean, besides waiting around here?”

 

“I’m - No, I’m not.”

 

Wendla pulled the painting against her, clutching it to her chest. “Did you want to, maybe, get a drink or something? Not an alcoholic drink, a coffee or something.”

 

Yep, Ilse’s heart was still there, she could practically feel it wanting to jump out towards Wendla right there and then. “That would be … really nice,” she said, unable to meet her eyes.

 

“I’m not sure what’s around here, if anything, but I’m sure we can find something.”

 

“I know a place,” Ilse smiled. “It should still be open.”

 

“Perfect,” Wendla laughed. “You lead the way.”

 

Ilse wasn’t entirely sure if any of this was real, and she’d pinch herself if it wasn’t for the possibility that Wendla would see her do so. She made a mental note to thank Ernst and Moritz the next morning. And Melchior, again. God, she couldn’t wait to tell them all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so I don't really know where I wanted this to be set but I was kind of using the Sydney Opera House as a location because I was there a few months ago and it's just about the fanciest place I can think of to set something like this (and they do have quite a few ballets there, I get a lot of emails haha). 
> 
> I'm over at potter-awakening on Tumblr if you have any questions, etc. Thanks for reading!


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